Nancy Warren - British Bad Boys

And hers.

In his place, wouldn’t she do the same? You couldn’t turn your back on your destiny.

“Maxine? Are you all right?”

The voice belonged to Arthur Denby, the pub’s owner and one of George’s “mates.” He was looking at her in some concern.

“Sorry, yes. I’m fine. I was thinking of something else.”

“Must have been something pretty bloody astonishing,” he said, the concern softening into teasing.

“Hah, it was.” She glanced over at George. “Do you believe in destiny?”

Arthur followed her gaze, then sent her a curious glance. “Do I believe in destiny?” He appeared to ponder the question, while Suz stuck down an electric cord with gaffer’s tape to keep it out of the way, and her sound tech checked the ambient noise, and the pub patrons drank, and watched, and chatted among themselves.

“Well, I’ve always thought a man, or woman,” he said, inclining his head to her, “makes his own destiny. But sometimes, sure, things happen and there’s no getting around the fact that they throw you off course.”

“But you think the man or woman is still in control?”

“Well, when destiny comes along, you can sit back and take what it dishes out, or you can choose what you’re going to do about it, can’t you?”

She sighed. Still looking at George, as though she could store him up for when she was gone. “And isn’t that the kicker? Figuring out what you’re going to do?”

“George is a good bloke,” Arthur said. She could have protested that her discussion of destiny and George were unrelated, but she respected Arthur’s intelligence. “One of the best.” He shook his head. “If destiny is pushing you in that direction, you could do a lot worse.”

“Have you ever been in love, Arthur?”

“Sure. Lots of times.” He had a softened burr, an Irishman who’d lived in England a long time.

She smiled, shaking her head. “One of these times it’s going to stick. And you may find it’s more complicated than it seems, this love business.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he said with a shrug and the slight insolence of a man who’s never had to choose between love and career. One day, darlin’, she thought to herself, I’d like to see you deeply in love and torn apart by it, then see if the superior smirk isn’t wiped off that dark, handsome face of yours. One day.

The roar in the pub dimmed. The sound guy miked George, but they’d decided to go for a boom mic for the rest of the dart players.

Simon was inside now, his camera on his shoulder. “Arthur,” she said, “would you mind telling everyone to relax and not look at the camera? We want this as natural as possible. The instructions will be better coming from you.”

“All right.”

“Attention, everyone,” he boomed. The room was silenced in an instant. Wow. Cool trick.

“If you want to be on television, you have to act cool. Relax, don’t look at the camera, and have a good time.” She nodded, pleased with him. “And, if you’re very good, these lovely people have offered to buy a round for everybody at the end of it.”

A ragged cheer greeted his final words, and he turned to Max and winked at her. Oh, what the hell. If she couldn’t submit that invoice, she’d eat the cost.

Since George had threatened to spank her in a very painful and not sexually fun way if she dared come near him in the pub with the pressed powder, she refrained. He was dressed as he always dressed for darts. Casual shirt, rolled at the cuffs, and today a navy T-shirt underneath. He made aristocracy look sexier than any movie star she’d ever worked with.

She backed out of the camera’s sight line. To her it was like being a studio audience or watching live television. She saw the scene before her, but it was apart from her. She was the viewer. A hypercritical one, of course, as she looked with an eye to editing, an overall impression of pace, energy, in-screen design, and overall entertainment.

Simon glanced at her and she gave him a thumbs-up. Then she found George also looking her way and she blew him a quick kiss. The glance she got in return was steamy enough to melt wax.

“Okay, your lordship, go for the darts,” the cameraman said.

“We’ve got sound, speed, we’re rolling.”

Max stepped back to watch the monitor.

You had to be so careful with a documentary. People wanted to learn something, experience something foreign to them, but they also wanted to while away an hour or two in a pleasurable manner. So she tried to inform and entertain.

This portion of the program was definitely more in the entertainment category. There was the nineteenth earl of Ponsford with a regular-guy shirt on, sleeves rolled up-she’d insisted on that. She liked the visual metaphor of him rolling up his sleeves and joining in the village darts game down at the local pub.

You could tell a lot about a man from the way his friends treated him, she thought.

And George seemed like a man with a lot of friends. He was perfect for her in every way but one huge one. How could she be so sure? She’d known him officially for a few months, spoken on the phone and by e-mail, but only spent a week as lovers. How could she know she loved him? How could she even contemplate marrying the man?

Well, you could learn a lot about a man when you spent a week with him, 24/7, under somewhat trying circumstances. Maybe they’d fallen in love with the fast-forward button on.

When the shoot was over and she’d bought everybody a round, it seemed perfectly natural to stay at the pub and enjoy fish and chips, or Cornish pasties, and a glass of lager or a pint of stout. Since it was the last day of shooting at Hart House, there was a convivial party atmosphere. Tomorrow they’d be moving on to a new location, and chances were they wouldn’t be coming back this way again.

As the evening progressed, she found herself glancing more and more often in George’s direction, and worrying less and less about who might sniff out that something was going on between them.

When he caught her gaze and held it with his own, she read all the longing she felt reflected in his eyes. Why did this have to be so hard?

The key crew members were staying at the castle-she thought that since she was staying there, George had felt honor-bound to invite Simon and the others. So it was a noisy group who left the pub at eleven and walked back to the castle singing English pub songs that Arthur had insisted on teaching them.

“‘Cor, what a mouth, what a North and South,’” Simon bellowed as he tromped up the path.

It was their last night, and she knew George felt it as keenly as she did. She didn’t even know when she was coming back or how long she could stay when she did.

Well, for tonight she wasn’t going to think about that. George was here, she was here, and for this last night, she didn’t plan to get much sleep.

Tomorrow she could worry and fret and plan, and maybe grieve the love that simply wasn’t meant to be. But for tonight she was going to enjoy the man she loved. Every inch of him.

When they returned to the castle, however, it turned out that Simon had purchased a fine bottle of scotch from the pub, and insisted on toasting George for his “generosity and for being a stand-up guy.” Which was more than could be said for Simon, who was weaving and swaying, the bottle swinging like a conductor’s baton, punctuating his slurred speech.

“Well, all right, then. Just a small one,” George said. “I’ll fetch some glasses.”

Janine had the sense to take the bottle from Simon and do the pouring, thus saving the expensive rug and keeping the drink sizes moderate.

Max could have kissed her.

The six filmmakers settled in, and Max, who usually enjoyed these impromptu parties as much as anyone, had never more wished to be spared.